Secretive - Bucky Barnes

13 || »What is Joy, if Sylvia be not by?«

[James]
Rising for the sixth time that night, I decide to give the guard dog a rest. In the end, this all must be very, very exciting for her, with all the new people around and me, with the new environment and other food and whatever can drive a dog crazy these days. I do not know. I am not a dog person. I love cats.

Swinging my feet out of the bed, Cocos head lifts from the pillow, her watching me with bright dark eyes and ears up straight.

Cute.
But not enough to make me smile.

»Go on, I'm back soon.« I whisper, and as if she understood, she lays down again, just to fill the room with quiet snores a couple of seconds later.

Sneaking out, only wearing jogging pants and a tank top, I get myself some water in the kitchen before heading to Nova's door. I do not even need to think about the direction in my main conscience; my body seems to know where to go exactly without my help. And as soon as I stand there in the dark corridor, right in front of Nova's even darker door, I take a deep inhale. Then an exhale. Hand running through my hair. I should get to the barber any time soon.

This is wrong in so many ways. I should not be here. I should not be about to do what I am about to do. I should not try to sniffle through her secrets, should not be the one trying to discover every single of them. I do not want this.

But the not wanting anyone else to do it is overweighing, the fear of a lead to her, of something maybe even reducing this bad and agonizing gnawing in the depths of my stomach and my heart, so I take the cool handle of the door in my flesh hand, before pushing down and stepping in, eyes closed. Soon enough, the door falls into the lock behind me, me not daring to open my eyes.

Her faint smell hits me. Vanilla and something tropical, sweet and devouring, almost making my mouth water. I inhale the thin scent, my lungs embracing it happily as if being the first air for two weeks, imagining her laying in my front asleep, my hands running through her soft hair and braiding it over and over again, her humming now and then in satisfaction in her sleep.

I probably never am able to do it again, and my heart is stabbed by the memory, making the thousandth spot bleed.

Gulping, I clear my throat, trying to get myself back together. Forcing my mind to remember the bad sentiment I have, and pushing it into the main focus. It works, I cannot tell if this is sad or not, but it works, and I clip on the light.

Her room is almost like she had left it, without the bags of books I saved that rest on her bed, still untouched. Dust lays on top of my grey sports bags, indicating her absence. Another punch in my chest.

Swallowing it down, I hesitate just another moment before heading for her bed. Looking underneath her pillows, her blankets, the stacks of books, the mattress, underneath the frame – nothing. As well as nothing useable is to be found in her desk, her roller shutter box, her nightstand, her bathroom shelf or her shower. The bath tub is empty as well as the cistern. Not above her hanging shelves or the one below her TV, and still not in the drawers of her shoe shelf. 

I take my time, though. Take my time to admire her. In every way possible. I take breaks. Breaks at her desk whenever I see her beautifully curved handwriting, a little messy but the prettiest I ever laid my eyes on. I read notes about her studies, read notes about books and notes for reviews. I read letters she received from Carly and other friends for Christmas and Eastern, read the list of her favourite quotes and falling more and more in love with her, which I did not think is possible. From George R. R. Martins »A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives one.« to Shakespeare's »What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?«, every single one is like written from my soul. I cannot believe how much I lost with this girl, and how perfectly she was shaped for me, inside and out. I feel a tear rolling down my cheek, and I push the paper away from me before I can put dirt on it.